


bet you wanna rip my heart out

by loveleee



Category: Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: F/M, Fake Dating, High School, Pining, canon AU, post-season 1 finale
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-23
Updated: 2019-05-12
Packaged: 2020-01-24 07:18:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,034
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18566572
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/loveleee/pseuds/loveleee
Summary: Betty’s surprised by how much she likes that concept --rivals. It conjures up an image of her and Jughead as adversaries in the newspaper biz, a modern day Bogart and Bacall, bantering their way towards the eventual realization that their feelings for one another amount to much more than begrudging respect.She likes it so much that she doesn’t think twice about surprising him in his new “office” a few days later -- not until she walks through the creaky front doors of Southside High, that is.(The Betty/Jughead post-season-1 fake dating AU nobody asked for, where Betty & Jughead aren't the ones fake dating.)





	1. one

**Author's Note:**

> Set post-1x13 in an AU where everything mostly went down the same as canon season 1, except Betty and Jughead never confessed their feelings and started dating.

Looking back, Jughead supposes he should’ve known all along that solving the murder of Jason Blossom would turn out to be a Pyrrhic victory.

After all, he’d been dealing with a fuller deck of cards than anyone else wrapped up in the case. He’d known his father was a Serpent -- which is to say, a criminal. He’d known that FP’s drinking had grown even worse right around the time Jason disappeared. Even his mother’s swift exodus to Toledo made a little more sense in light of the fact that she may have known there was a high school football player-slash-maple syrup scion tied up in the basement of the townie bar where her husband spent most of his nights (and more than a few of his days).

Still, he’s not sure he could have predicted  _ this _ : cleaning out his locker after the last bell on a Friday afternoon, the hallway empty save for him and Archie, who’s leaning against the wall and watching Jughead load up his backpack with an uncharacteristic frown on his handsome, freckled face. 

“This is such bullshit, Jug,” Archie says for what’s got to be the eight hundredth time this week. “Even my mom thinks so. I heard my dad on the phone with her last night, and she was saying --” 

“My whole life is bullshit, Archie.” Jughead grabs a wrinkled t-shirt from where it’s balled up in the back of the locker, then slams the door shut with a satisfying  _ clang _ . “Why stop now?”

Archie goes quiet, just as he does every time Jughead alludes to the fact that his childhood was sorely lacking in the golden retrievers and white picket fences that have characterized Archie’s existence since the day he was born. 

Jughead swings his overstuffed backpack over one shoulder. “I have to stop by the trailer, grab a few things,” he fibs, knowing Archie is still grounded for the “reckless” behavior he exhibited in pursuit of Jason’s murderer, and therefore unlikely to take such a lengthy detour on his way home from school. “Gonna run to the bathroom first.”

He waits until the front doors have shut behind his best friend to turn in the opposite direction of the men’s room and instead head for the office of the Blue and Gold. The truth is, there’s nothing left in that trailer that he wants or needs; even if there was, he’d have a hell of a time finding it amidst the wreckage that Sheriff Keller and his deputies had left in their wake. Right now, the only thing that Jughead Jones wants is to be alone. 

Even so, he’s pretty sure it’s not disappointment fluttering in his stomach when he pushes open the office door and finds Betty Cooper on the other side. 

A soft  _ oh!  _ escapes her when he steps through the doorway, but her shoulders relax as soon as she sees it’s him. “Hey! I was just thinking about you.”

Her words do nothing to calm the deranged butterflies bouncing around behind his navel. Jughead drops his backpack onto an empty desk and grabs a chair, pulling it up to the side of the desk where Betty is seated before one of the school’s ancient desktop computers. “You were?”

“Well... _ writing  _ about you might be more accurate.” She squares her shoulders, as if steeling herself for something, then angles the monitor towards him, revealing a Word doc nearly three pages long. His eyes flick to the top of the page as he leans forward:  _ Dear Mayor McCoy… _

After reading the first few lines, he looks back at Betty. She’s watching him with her wide green eyes, nervous but hopeful. “I thought maybe if we got the mayor involved, and made her understand how much you’ve  _ done  _ for the north side, she could make an exception. Let you stay with the Andrews,” she explains. 

So it’s a plea for clemency, he realizes with a start, having read only a handful of paragraphs that extolled his (apparently many) virtues before the white noise humming between his ears made it impossible to continue. 

His face is burning so hot that there’s no point in trying to hide it. 

“So it’s a work of fiction, then.” 

Seeing Betty’s face fall in response, Jughead’s heart twists with guilt. “I’m just kidding.” He grabs her hand across the table and squeezes it, letting go just as she begins to squeeze back. “This is...it’s incredible, Betty. I don’t know how to thank you. But...”

Her ponytail swings appealingly as she tilts her head. “But what?”

“But...I don’t think Mayor McCoy is going to care.” He shrugs. “What does she have to gain by doing a favor for the son of an accomplice to murder?”

Betty frowns. “Your dad’s not an accomplice, Jug. At worst, he’s an accessory.”

“Tell that to Cheryl.” She’d pounded her fists against his chest so hard she’d left a bruise when she heard the news that FP Jones had been arrested in relation to her brother’s murder. “Or Reggie Mantle. Or whoever wrote  _ Serpent trash  _ on my locker this morning during homeroom.” Probably also Reggie, if the fact that “Serpent” was misspelled was any indication.

Her frown deepens. “It doesn’t  _ matter  _ what people think. Your dad was being blackmailed, and -- and even if he  _ was  _ guilty, you had nothing to do with it. You helped catch the murderer!”

“It’s politics, Betty. What people think is literally the  _ only  _ thing that matters,” he points out gently. He nods towards the screen. “At least now I know who to ask if I need a really great letter of recommendation.”

“God, Jughead. It’s not funny.” She turns away, and it’s only then that Jughead realizes this isn’t just Betty getting worked up over one of her usual crusades for justice. She’s  _ genuinely  _ upset...and entirely on his behalf.

There is a tiny, selfish little corner of his heart that is downright gleeful with the knowledge that Betty Cooper -- cheerleader, straight-A student, all-around best person in town -- cares so deeply about the fate of Jughead Jones. It’s not something he’s proud of.

Mostly, though, he just wants to comfort her.

“Betty, hey. I’m sorry. Sardonic humor is just my way of dealing with...all of this, I guess.” He lays a tentative hand on her shoulder, and swallows hard when her own hand comes up to cover it a moment later. “I appreciate what you’re trying to do for me. I really do. It just…”

She twists around in her seat to look at him again, her eyes bright with unshed tears. “It isn’t fair, Juggie.” Her voice wavers on his name. “This is your home.”

  
  
  
  
  
  


He’s still thinking about it --  _ home _ \-- hours later, staring up at the ceiling from where he lies on an air mattress on Archie’s floor. Betty had said it with such conviction. More conviction than he’s ever felt, really, for any of the places he might have claimed as his home.

The first was the little house on Winthrop Street, a place he barely remembers now, save for the light blue walls of his bedroom, and the circus animal-themed sheets he slept under every night. He and Archie pass it every time they walk to Archie’s house after school together, but he’s never told him that his family used to live in the yellow house with gray shutters.

Next they’d moved to the apartment building across the street from the public pool -- further south, but still on the “right” side of the train tracks. Even at age five, Jughead had wondered why his family was moving somewhere smaller right when  _ they  _ were getting bigger. But his parents had seemed so perpetually exhausted in the days and weeks and months after baby Jellybean arrived that he never asked. 

That’s where he’d lived when he met Archie and Betty for the first time.

It was where he’d lived for most of his life, right up until the day towards the end of ninth grade when he unlocked the front door to find cardboard boxes strewn about the living room. “We’re getting kicked out on Sunday. Go pack up your room,” his dad had told him gruffly, handing over a flattened box and a roll of masking tape.

Six weeks later, Jughead woke up one morning on the pull-out sofa in the Sunnyside Trailer Park double-wide they now occupied to find his mother and sister had left in the night. A few days after that, he did the same, though he didn’t make it as far as they did -- just the ten-minute walk east to the projection booth of the Twilight Drive-in.

In some ways, Archie’s house feels more like home than any of those places had. Maybe because it _is_ a home, he reasons -- just not _his_ home. The sense of stability, permanence, emanates from every corner: from baby Archie’s handprint cemented into the walkway that leads up to the front door, to the framed black-and-white photos of his great-great-grandparents that line the wall next to the pantry.

And it’s not just the fact that the Andrews have lived there for decades. Betty’s house bears signs of her early childhood, too; he’s seen the doorframe at the back of the kitchen where Betty and Polly’s heights were notched every January with neat, blue-and-red dashes against the tasteful eggshell paint. But there is something lacking in the Cooper house that the modest home next door seems to possess inherently. In the eleven years he’s known her, Jughead has never gotten the sense that Betty ever feels truly  _ comfortable  _ when she’s at home.

Whatever it is about the Andrews’ house that makes it so welcoming, it’s clear now that it’s merely a pit stop on the road of Jughead’s life, a temporary respite before whatever it is that awaits him in a foster home on the south side.

The weekend passes in a blur of pizza and video games. Though she’s theoretically just a few dozen yards away, there’s no sign of Betty, who’s been under house arrest every weekend since her mother discovered her involvement in the Blossom investigation went well beyond the innocent act of pinning index cards to a murder board. Veronica stops by, but leaves after less than an hour, telling them in a huffy voice that she hopes Jughead likes his new school and that she’ll see Archie on Monday when he’s done committing alien genocide.

(“They’re invading our  _ galaxy _ , Ronnie,” Archie had said in disbelief, eyes never moving from the tv screen. “Whose side are you  _ on _ ?”)

Jughead can only ignore his looming departure for so long, though. Archie’s dad knocks on the bedroom door a few hours before dinnertime on Sunday afternoon, crossing his arms over his chest as he leans against the doorframe. “Hey fellas. You all packed up, Jug?”

“He’s not leaving until tonight, Dad. Chill,” Archie snaps before Jughead can say anything.

The back of Jughead’s neck grows hot. In light of all that’s happened these past few weeks, Archie’s loyalty is no small thing. But neither is the fact that Fred Andrews had opened his home to Jughead without question, and is only now closing it because Child Protective Services says he has to.

“I asked Jughead a question, son,” Fred says easily.

Jughead nods, gesturing to the army green duffel bag that rests by the foot of Archie’s bed. “Yeah, I’m pretty much set.” 

He knows that now is the right time to express his gratitude -- to acknowledge the fact that Fred has done something for him that his own father could not, short-lived as it turned out to be. But his throat feels tight, closed-up, any words he might gather unable to break through and be spoken.

“Alright. Ms. Weiss’ll be here by seven, so we’re eating at six. Don’t stuff yourselves with cheese puffs before then.”

Dinner is steak, cooked to perfection on the grill even though it’s well past the season for it, and baked potatoes loaded with sour cream and chives. It’s not exactly what Jughead would’ve chosen as his last meal -- that’s a double cheeseburger with fries and a chocolate milkshake from Pop’s -- but it feels like one anyway.

The doorbell rings as Jughead and Archie are washing and drying the dishes. Fred and Ms. Weiss, Jughead’s appointed social worker, appear in the kitchen a few moments later. Archie angles himself so that he’s practically blocking Jughead from their view with his own body, and Jughead thinks he might laugh if he weren’t so close to crying.

Hugs are exchanged; thank yous are said. Archie looks so sad that it’s almost annoying, and Jughead gives him a gentle punch on the shoulder. “I’ll see you soon, dude.”

Archie shrugs, crouching down to scratch Vegas behind the ears. “I know.”

Jughead throws his duffel bag in the backseat of Ms. Weiss’ old-but-clean Honda Civic, and just as he’s about to slide in after it, he hears a shout from somewhere behind him. “ _ Juggie! _ ”

It takes him a few seconds to see her: Betty, leaning out of her bedroom window, waving her hand frantically to grab his attention. 

He waves back. “Hey!”

Betty’s face lights up in a smile that he feels all the way down to his toes. “Good luck tomorrow!”

“Thanks!”

Jughead continues to look up at Betty with what he’s sure is his stupidest grin, until Ms. Weiss clears her throat from the driver’s seat. “All ready, Jughead?”

With one last wave goodbye, he climbs inside and shuts the car door. He forces himself to look at the back of the headrest in front of him, and not out the window at the only three people in the world who have been holding him together since the night Jason Blossom’s body was found, and the ground began to crumble beneath his feet.

He clicks his seatbelt into place and pulls the brim of his beanie down a little further over his forehead. 

“Ready.”

  
  
  
  
  
  


\-----

  
  
  
  
  
  


Betty glances up at the clock above the classroom door, holding back a groan when she sees the minute hand has inched only one slot forward since she last looked. 

It feels foreign --  _ wrong _ , even -- to be so distracted during what is normally her favorite class, Creative Writing with Ms. Kandinsky. But today is not normal. If it were, Jughead would be sitting in the seat right behind her, muttering things under his breath that make her press her fingers against her lips just so she doesn’t laugh out loud in the middle of free-write time.

Instead the desk behind her is empty, and Jughead is across town at Southside High, where they don’t even  _ have  _ a Creative Writing class. Or an art program. Or a single teacher who wasn’t flat-out rejected from a job at Riverdale High for being a secret drug addict, if her mother is to be believed.

(She’s not, of course. Not after she’d lied to Betty’s face for months on end about Polly’s mystery “illness” that turned out to be a run-of-the-mill teen pregnancy, albeit one that had inadvertently led to the murder of the father of said pregnancy. 

So maybe not so run-of-the-mill after all.)

Slumping a little in her seat, Betty turns back to the blank notebook page before her. Ms. Kandinsky usually gives them the last fifteen minutes of class to spend writing whatever they want, with no expectation that she -- or anyone -- would ever read it. That had come in handy over the last few months, as Betty had often used the time to work through her theories on the Blossom case, which she’d then discuss with Jughead in the Blue and Gold after class ended. 

Now, though, all she can think about is how Jughead is doing at his new school, and whether it would be weird for her to call him immediately after the bell rings.  _ Probably _ , she writes, looping the end of the  _ y _ around in a dramatic swish.

In some ways, it had been easier when Archie was still the object of her affections. From the age of twelve or so, there had been no doubt that Archie was interested in girls. And though it hurt to admit it, there had also been very little doubt that he had no interest in Betty herself. Like it or not, she’d always known where she stood with the boy next door. 

Jughead was different. Jughead was the boy who chose library books and old movies at the Twilight over bowling dates and dances. When all the other guys at school turned their heads to watch the River Vixens prance past the bleachers during a pep rally, Jughead’s eyes stayed steadily trained on his laptop. 

All of which could have simply meant that Jughead was gay. But as far as Betty could tell, he didn’t pay much attention to the boys in their class, either. And he’d never so much as registered a blip on Kevin’s “military-grade” gaydar. 

So when she’d first caught herself starting to think about Jughead  _ that way  _ \-- daydreaming about his hands, and that swoop of hair that always seems to fall just right over his forehead -- she’d told herself to stop. She couldn’t go down that road again, pining after someone who would never love her back. 

But then there had been these... _ moments.  _

Like the time she’d caught him staring at her in Pop’s while Archie droned on about some new guitar chord he was struggling to master. (Jughead had played it off like he just wanted one of her onion rings.) Or the sour look on his face when she confirmed her date night plans with Trev Brown. 

Jughead had even climbed up a ladder and through her bedroom window one weekend afternoon -- a romantic gesture that up until then, Betty could only have dreamed about. She’d been on the verge of a meltdown when he knocked on the glass paneling, her initial shock giving way to delight. He’d hugged her, comforted her...and for a split second she’d even thought he might lean in and kiss her. 

In retrospect, she wishes that she’d gathered her courage and closed the gap between them that afternoon. Instead, a long-dormant clue had surfaced from the depths of her brain, sending them off onto another investigative caper, this time into the dark, damp heart of Fox Forest. 

After that, there just hadn’t been time to sit down and figure out what -- if anything -- was going on between the two of them.

The bell rings. Betty gathers her books and follows the stream of students out into the hallway, where she lingers in front of her locker for a few minutes, absently swiping around to different screens on her phone as she thinks. 

It  _ would  _ be weird to call Jughead, she decides. It’s not really something they do, unless one of them’s stumbled on a big break in the case, and, well, the case doesn’t exist anymore. But she does shoot him a quick text --  _ how’d it go?  _ \-- before shoving her phone into the front pocket of her backpack and rushing off to River Vixens practice.

It’s a grueling 90 minutes -- Cheryl’s tendency to work out her aggression via the squad has only intensified since the truth about her brother’s death was revealed -- and by the time it’s over, Betty’s not thinking about anything other than how badly she wants to collapse into bed. As she ties up the laces on her clean white Keds in the locker room, Veronica approaches, already zipped back into her burgundy minidress, looking like she’s never even heard the word  _ sweat,  _ let alone felt it dripping down the back of her neck less than twenty minutes ago. 

“Dinner at mine? Our chef has Mondays off, but my mom can barely cook, so she overcompensates by giving me wine.”

Betty bites her lower lip. “I don’t know, V. My mom’s been watching me like a hawk ever since...you know.” She’s loathe to say it out loud while Cheryl could be lurking just around the corner.

“You’d think people would feel safer knowing a murderer is  _ off  _ the streets.” Veronica sighs, folding her hands in her lap as she sinks onto the bench beside Betty. “Tell her I’m helping you with your Spanish homework or something.”

It’s not a bad idea, so that’s what she does. And it works. (Though not without a promise that if Betty isn’t home by 9 on the dot, her mother will send the entire sheriff’s department out looking for her.)

Mrs. Lodge makes spaghetti and meatballs for dinner, and despite Veronica’s warning, Betty thinks it’s pretty good. Stomachs full, the girls retire to Veronica’s bedroom, where they sprawl out over the fluffy purple comforter of her king-size bed. Betty feels sleepy, loose-limbed and warm, the single glass of white wine she’d sipped over the meal working its magic as it flows through her bloodstream. 

“I think Archie’s going to ask me to the holiday dance,” Veronica says, apropos of nothing. “Would that be weird for you?”

Betty snorts. “No.”

“Really?” Veronica rolls over onto her side, propping herself up on one elbow. 

“Yes, really.” Betty turns to face her, mirroring Veronica’s position. “You guys went to homecoming together. Did you still think I had a crush on him all this time?”

Veronica shrugs. “Maybe? I wasn’t sure.”

Betty frowns, flopping onto her back again. If even _ Veronica  _ thought that Betty might still be harboring feelings for Archie, what might someone a little less tuned into emotional signals -- someone like Jughead -- think? 

Maybe that was why he’d been so difficult to read. So hesitant to make a move.

Then she remembers the text she’d sent him, now nearly four hours ago. Betty bolts upright with a small gasp. “Shit.”

“What?”

“I texted Jughead after school and then completely ignored him.” Betty clambers off of the bed and grabs her backpack from the loveseat by the door where she’d dropped it on her way in.

Veronica sits up as Betty returns to the bed with her phone, a slow smile spreading across her face. “Okay. I see it now.”

Betty glances at her. “See what?”

“What you’re actually like when you have a crush.”

Betty’s cheeks grow warm. “I’m...I’m not going to dignify that with a response.” Angling herself away from Veronica’s smug gaze, she turns her attention back to the phone in her hand.

_ Buy me a milkshake and i’ll tell you all about it _ , reads the message from Jughead. About an hour had passed before he followed it up:  _ ok fine i’ll buy my own. meet @ 6:30? _

Then a third, final message some time later:  _ maybe another time. _

Her stomach hurts. She’s waging a silent debate between calling him or simply texting him back when she feels a hand on her knee, jerking her back to the present. Veronica’s knowing smile has transformed into a look of concern. “Everything okay?”

Betty swallows down the lump in her throat. “Yeah, I just...he wanted to hang out, and I blew him off. I feel terrible.”

Veronica purses her lips for a moment, as though she’s carefully considering her next words. “You know, Jughead’s going to be fine. I know this feels like a really big deal to you and Archie, because you’ve always been a trio, but...he’s a smart guy. He’ll make friends. And you can still see him any time you want outside of school.”

“Not if I ignore his texts,” Betty mutters. But she knows Veronica is right. 

Even so, the apology she sends him that night is about as effusive as one can be over text message. Neither of them is free to meet up for the rest of the week -- Jughead’s new foster parents want him home for dinner most evenings, and Betty’s own parents claim they need her help at the Register while one of the junior editors is out sick. They make plans to meet up with Archie for lunch at Pop’s on Saturday.

Though she arrives five minutes early, Jughead is already there by the time she slips through the front door at Pop’s, sitting in his usual spot in their usual booth. 

Unfortunately, so is Archie. 

“Hi guys,” she says breathlessly. When Jughead turns to look up at her, she’d swear his eyes light up; but she doesn’t think about it for very long, because two seconds later she’s half-kneeling on the pleather seat beside him, her arms around his shoulders, her face pressed against the collar of his familiar sherpa jacket.

His arms fold around her, a little more hesitant than she’d like, but at the end of the day she’s just happy he’s hugging her at all. 

“Wow,” Jughead says when she pulls away. “If I knew I’d get a greeting like that I would’ve switched schools a long time ago.”

It’s yet another comment from him that teeters on the edge of flirtatiousness without fully committing to it. Just like every other time, Betty doesn’t know how to respond. She looks at Archie across the table, who raises an eyebrow as he pops a fry into his mouth. 

Betty clears her throat and picks up a menu, scanning over the words she already knows by heart. “How’s Southside?”

“It’s fine.”

When he fails to elaborate, Betty sets her menu back down and levels him with a look of disbelief. “That’s it? Fine?”

Jughead scratches the back of his neck. “It’s high school, I mean...what else is there to say?”

“What the students are like? What your classes are like? Extracurriculars?” Betty shakes her head. “How’s the food? I know you’ve got an opinion about that.”

“Lay off, Betty,” Archie says. “He’s not here to be interrogated.”

“It’s fine, Arch.” Jughead’s voice holds a note of warning, subtle but present. “Um, the food’s bad. Really bad. My foster mom offered to pack me a lunch, and I might actually take her up on it.”

Ignoring Archie’s eye roll, she asks, “What’s your foster family like?”

“Nice, I guess.” Jughead shrugs. “They’ve got two little kids, too, so their hands are kind of full. But I get my own bedroom, so that’s cool.”

_ It’s fine, they’re nice, it’s cool _ \-- it’s all so unlike Jughead, heretofore the king of unsolicited opinions. And there’s so much more she wants to know:  _ What are their names? Where do they live? Is it hard living with foster siblings, when your own is growing up somewhere in another state without you? Do you miss her? Do you miss us? _

_ Do you miss  _ **_me_ ** _? _

But their server stops by to take their orders, and once that’s done, Archie and Jughead launch into an enthusiastic conversation about the new Avengers movie. Betty stares past them out the window into the parking lot, instantly bored.

Maybe it’s for the best. Maybe Archie is right -- maybe it’s unfair to expect Jughead to unpack all of the changes in his life immediately after living through them. 

So when Archie excuses himself to the bathroom, leaving her and Jughead alone together for the first time in weeks, Betty doesn’t pry any further. She says nothing, in fact, simply munching on her chicken sandwich until Jughead nudges her with his elbow. 

“Something kinda cool,” he says. “They’re letting me start up the school newspaper at Southside again. The Red and Black.”

“Juggie! That’s awesome.” Her heart swells with genuine excitement for him, only to deflate just as quickly as she remembers the sorry state of her own school newspaper, now that it’s just her and the occasional op-ed from Ethel Muggs. “Do you have writers?”

“Um...not sure.” Jughead takes a bite of his burger, mumbling his next few words. “There might be another person or two who’s into it.”

“I hope it’s someone who can keep your semicolons in check.”

Jughead laughs. “Jeez. The knives are really out now that we’re rivals, huh?”

Betty’s surprised by how much she likes that concept --  _ rivals _ . It conjures up an image of her and Jughead as adversaries in the newspaper biz, a modern day Bogart and Bacall, bantering their way towards the eventual realization that their feelings for one another amount to much more than begrudging respect.

She likes it so much that she doesn’t think twice about surprising him in his new “office” a few days later -- not until she walks through the creaky front doors of Southside High, that is. 

The halls are strangely quiet for 3 pm on a Thursday. Back at Riverdale High, there would still be plenty of teachers wrapping up their day, and classrooms full of students meeting for French Club or debate team practice. Here, her own footsteps reverberate in the eerie silence as fluorescent lights flicker overhead.

_ If this is Jughead’s idea of ‘fine,’  _ Betty thinks,  _ he must consider Riverdale High a paradise.  _ Graffiti covers the walls, much of it profane; half of the lockers are missing the metal doors from their rusted hinges. There’s an odd, vaguely chemical smell hanging in the air that she can’t quite place. She walks slowly, taking it all in, her fingers tightly gripping the used coffee maker she’d brought along as a “housewarming” gift. 

She makes it all the way to the end of the hall before she realizes she has no idea where the newspaper office is -- and, she thinks with a growing sense of unease, this may not be the greatest place to wander until she finds it.

_ Just a few minutes more _ , she tells herself. With a deep breath, she turns the corner -- and sees an open classroom door about fifteen feet away, light spilling out into the empty hallway. Heart racing, she strides towards it, wincing when her sneakers squeak against the tile floor. 

Betty feels nearly dizzy with relief when she sees that it is indeed Jughead inside the room, his back turned towards the door, slouched over a desk with his headphones on. She taps on the door with her knuckles. “Knock, knock.”

Jughead whips around at the sound. As he pulls his headphones down around his neck, a rapid succession of emotions play across his face: fear, surprise, delight, concern. “Betty?”

“Betty,” she confirms, stepping into the little room. It’s filled with old desks and dust-covered boxes, and it takes him a few seconds to maneuver his way past the piles of stuff to reach her. 

“What are you doing here?”

When she’d envisioned this moment on the walk over, he’d sounded a lot more excited to see her. Nonetheless, she gives him her brightest smile. “I wanted to come stake out my competition.” She holds the coffee maker up for him to see. “And make sure we’re starting out on even footing.”

Jughead barely seems to register the gift, instead stepping past her to peer out into the hallway. Seemingly satisfied with whatever he sees (or doesn’t see), he pulls the door shut, and crosses his arms over his chest as he faces her. “Did you come here alone?”

This isn’t going  _ at all  _ like the way she’d planned. “Yes.” Betty looks around for a place to set down the coffee machine, and ends up settling for the seat of a wobbly, three-legged chair. She places a hand on her hip. “Is that a problem?”

His eyes soften, and Jughead sighs, scratching his cheek. “No. I mean -- maybe? This isn’t really the safest place for someone like you.”

She’s not exactly sure what he means by that -- because she’s a girl? Because she’s from the north side? Because she’s Betty Cooper? -- but she knows she’s offended by it. 

“What do you mean, it’s not  _ safe? _ ” she demands. “Are  _ you  _ not safe?”

His hands grip her biceps, just below the shoulders. In any other situation she’d probably melt under his touch, but right now, she’s annoyed with him. It takes all of her self control not to wrench out of his grasp. 

“No! I’m fine, I’m safe. It’s just -- you really shouldn’t be walking around here alone after hours, and --”

The door flies open behind them, and driven by pure instinct, Betty jumps -- straight into Jughead’s arms.

In the doorway stands a girl -- a very petite, very pretty girl, with big dark eyes and long, wavy pink hair that reaches all the way down to her waist. In her hands rests a coffee maker that looks even older than the one Betty had brought along. 

In her eyes, suspicion.

Betty can only stare as she feels Jughead gently nudge her out of his embrace to stand beside him. 

“Sorry,” the girl says, sounding not sorry at all. “Did I interrupt something?”

“Nope.” Jughead shakes his head. “Toni, this is um, this is my friend Betty. And this is Toni,” he says, gesturing towards the girl before them. “My girlfriend.”

 


	2. two

The first sign that Jughead’s day is about to go very, very poorly is when the security guard (!) manning the metal detector (!!) at the entrance to his new high school forces him to take his beanie off.

“It’s just a hat, man,” he mutters, tugging the brim further down over his forehead.

The guard takes a single, silent step to the side, positioning himself between Jughead and the metal detector. He decides to try a different tactic.

“Okay, I didn’t want to admit this, but I’ve got a huge bald spot underneath.”

Nothing.

Jughead sighs, tearing the hat from his head, tossing it into the plastic bin where his backpack already sits. “Fine.”

During the car ride last night, Ms. Weiss had explained that he’d be escorted by a peer mentor for his first day at Southside. She hadn’t provided a name or even a description, but he instantly knows who it is anyway, if only for the fact that the short, slim girl with long pink hair loitering by the water fountain on the other side of the metal detector is the first person to make eye contact with him all morning.

He recognizes her, kind of: she’s one of the kids who lives down at the far end of Sunnyside. The part where the trailers are all a little bit older and rustier, and it’s noisy in the evenings; the part where Jughead never really went. He never had a reason to.

“Forsythe Jones,” she drawls, eyeing him up and down as she steps forward. A camera swings gently from a strap around her neck – a film camera – and he wonders if there’s actually a darkroom buried somewhere within the bowels of the building.

“Jughead Jones,” he corrects. “So you’re my peer mentor?”

Her mouth curls up in a smirk, but she says nothing, simply gesturing for him to follow her as she turns – and in so doing, reveals a familiar, snake-themed insignia on the back of her worn leather jacket. 

Of course he’s being “welcomed” by a member of the Southside fucking Serpents.

“You got a name?” he asks, jogging a few steps to catch up to her. She walks surprisingly quickly for someone with such short legs.

“Toni Topaz.” She glances up at him. “And yes, I know your dad.”

That answers his second question, but leads to about a thousand more. “How long have you been a Serpent?”

“Officially, since I was fifteen. But I’m a legacy.” Toni stops short and raps her knuckles against one of the dented lockers that lines the walls. “This one’s yours.”

Not having any textbooks yet, Jughead has nothing to put in it – which is probably for the best, given it’s lacking some essential features. “Shouldn’t this have a _lock_ on it?”

“Southside is strictly BYOP.” Toni taps a chipped blue lock hanging from the locker beside his. “Bring your own padlock.”

Things don’t really improve from there. Toni points out the principal’s office, the nurse’s office, and three different stairwells where you can usually get away with smoking pot indoors. “There’s the men’s room,” she says, waving her hand towards a door that’s completely covered in spray-painted dicks. “But if you need to take a shit, use the one on the second floor. Those flush.”

They make it to homeroom just before the bell rings, though it appears to be more of a suggestion than anything else, as students filter in and out for the next fifteen minutes, until the bell rings again. When Jughead asks the teacher if he has a class schedule for Forsythe Jones, the man looks up from his game of Candy Crush only long enough to shrug and point in the direction of the front office.

Toni seems unbothered, even when they miss the entirety of first period biology because it takes the secretary forty-five minutes to track down Jughead’s schedule. “There’s only so many times you can look at your own spit under a microscope and still find it educational,” she says, peeling a strip of hot pink nail polish off of her thumbnail.

The only time Toni expresses anything other than boredom, or occasional, mild amusement, is at lunch, when Jughead veers off towards an empty table at the far side of the cafeteria. “Where are you going?”

Jughead slows to a halt, weighing his words carefully. Toni wasn’t exactly what he’d call _friendly_ , or _nice,_ but she had made sure that he ended up where he was supposed to all morning, and even imparted some bathroom-related wisdom that he figures will come in handy sooner rather than later. (Especially if he eats the slop masquerading as meatloaf on his lunch tray.)

“I’ll take it from here,” he says, mustering up as much false confidence as he can. “Thanks for showing me around, though.”

Toni’s still looking at him like he’s crazy. “I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”

Jughead glances from side to side, unsure if she’s talking to him, or some unseen predator about to shank the new kid in the middle of the lunch room. “Do what?”

“Eat alone.” She jerks her chin towards a table about twenty feet behind them, where a dozen or so students are gathered, most of them in jackets that match the one slung over her own shoulders. “The Serpents sit over here.”

Jughead frowns. “I’m not a Serpent.”

“No shit. You should still come sit with us.”

A handful of the Serpents are looking at him now; one, a tall boy with dark hair and an upturned nose, is openly sneering. Jughead feels the back of his neck grow hot.

“I’m good.”

“ _Jughead_.” Toni moves closer, close enough that he can hear her next words even as she lowers her voice to a near-hiss. “I’m not the only one who knows who your dad is. _Everyone_ knows who you are. Including the Ghoulies.”

His first instinct is to laugh. Surely she’s fucking with him. Surely there’s not a group of people at this school who not only refer to themselves as _Ghoulies_ , but who also have it out for him, Jughead Jones.

But Toni’s eyes are steely, her jaw set. She’s serious.

“You may not be a Serpent now,” she tells him. “But you will be, if you want to survive.”

Jughead thinks of the last time he’d seen his father, sitting on the edge of his cot in a cell in the county jail. The shadow in his eyes and the quirk of his mouth that said, _we both knew I’d end up here someday._

He thinks of Jason Blossom, wrists bloodied and bruised, tied together behind his back in the basement of the White Wyrm.

Jughead shakes his head, and walks away.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Nothing actually _happens_ during lunch, though Jughead feels eyes boring into his back the entire time. Whether they’re real or imagined, relief floods through him when the bell rings, shepherding the student body back to the relative law and order of the classroom.

 _Relative_ is very much the operative word. By the time the school day ends, Jughead has witnessed three fistfights, another _attempted_ fistfight, and one emotional breakdown courtesy of a math teacher who sat down at her desk in the middle of class and cried. Cumulatively, he’s experienced no more than eight minutes total of actual education.

And he’s _exhausted._

Even so, as he stumbles down the front steps of the school, the thought of heading back to his new foster home is not particularly appealing. Not because there’s anything wrong with the couple that’s taken him in – their names are Eric and Tami, and they seem nice enough, if a little more religious than he’s used to – but returning to their house means fielding more of those getting-to-know-you questions, which he doesn’t have the mental capacity for right now.

Going back to the Andrews’ house so soon after leaving it is out, too – too awkward, and too likely that he’ll just end up falling asleep on Archie’s bedroom floor again. Besides, Archie probably has football practice today.

 _Pop’s it is_ , he thinks, then feels a buzzing in his pocket as he turns onto the street heading north.

His heart leaps when he sees the message is from Betty. _how’d it go?_

He’s more than halfway to the diner before he’s satisfied with his carefully crafted response. _Buy me a milkshake and i’ll tell you all about it:_ a clear invitation to meet him at Pop’s, with the implication that it’ll be just the pair of them, but jokey enough that she won’t suspect how desperate he is to see a familiar face. (Her face, specifically).

Jughead checks his phone for a response every few minutes, but by the time he’s slipped into his usual booth and placed his usual order, Betty still hasn’t replied. She might have practice after school too, he reasons, and have to check in with her parents after that’s over. He debates calling her, but settles for another message: _ok fine i’ll buy my own. meet @ 6:30?_

His food arrives. His phone remains silent.

The sun is starting to set when he drops a ten dollar bill onto the tabletop, and waves goodbye to Pop.

_Maybe another time._

His mood is less than pleasant when he makes it back to the Taylors’ house, but he does his best to rein it in as he lets himself through the front door.

“Hey Jughead.” Eric calls to him from the kitchen, where Jughead finds him setting four places at the table. “You’re just in time for dinner.”

“Oh.” Jughead tucks his hands into the pockets of his jacket, a twinge of guilt twisting in his stomach. He could still eat – he can pretty much always eat – but the thought of sitting through family dinner with a bunch of people who _aren’t_ his family right now is draining. “I already ate.”

Eric looks up, puzzled. “You already ate? Where?”

“Pop’s. The diner by where the Twilight used to be.”

“I know Pop’s.” Eric rests a hand on the back of a dining chair. “You gotta tell us if you’re not going to be home for dinner.”

“Well…I _am_ here for dinner.” Jughead lifts his hands slightly, as if to say, _see?_

Eric studies him for a moment, and Jughead wonders what it is he sees: a sarcastic, but ultimately harmless teen, or a budding gang recruit. A cautionary tale. His foster parents obviously know who his real father is, and what he’s done – thanks to Alice Cooper, the alleged crimes of F.P. Jones had been front page news right up until the moment they found Clifford Blossom swinging from the rafters – but it’s unclear whether they know he was also the leader of the Southside Serpents. 

“We need to know if you’re not having dinner with us, so we don’t waste a meal you’re not going to eat,” Eric says. “Preferably with a heads up the night before. And preferably, you _will_ eat with us this week, since we’re still getting to know one another.”

It’s not an unreasonable request, which is why Jughead doesn’t protest when Tami serves him a full plate of casserole fifteen minutes later. Neither he nor Eric mentions to her that he’s already eaten dinner, but when he catches the older man’s eye mid-swallow, he’s met with a look that’s equal parts concerned and impressed.

Dinner is mostly quiet, peppered with a few questions about his first day at school. Jughead keeps his answers polite but brief. Tami and Eric’s daughters are still young – Julie seems to be about kindergarten aged, while the baby is asleep upstairs – so he’s not sure how aware the couple is of the dire state of the south side’s only high school. He doesn’t feel like there’s much point in worrying them about it now, when Julie’s nearly a decade away from matriculation.

After everyone has finished, Jughead helps clear the table. Tami tells him he can do his homework there if he’d like, but Jughead demurs, and heads for his bedroom instead.

(He figures there’s also no point in telling them that no one had actually assigned him any homework today.)

The bedroom is tiny, with just enough space to contain a twin-size bed and a small dresser that stands next to an even smaller closet. But it has a ceiling fan and a door that locks, which is more than he can say for the trailer back in Sunnyside, where he’d slept on a pull-out sofa in the living room.

Flopping back onto the bed, he pulls out his phone. His heart leaps when he sees that Betty has finally written back.

 _I’m so sorry!!!!!_ , reads the first message, followed by a sob emoji. _We had vixens practice and v invited me for dinner and you know how she is._

Boy, does he. Of all the unexpected developments to take place in Riverdale over the past six months, Veronica Lodge’s immersion into his group of friends might be the strangest of all.

 _It’s ok_ , he types back. _I think the foster fam wants me here all week anyway._

 _Let’s do something this wknd_ , Betty writes. _I’ll talk to archie & let u know._

Jughead shrugs off the disappointment – at least she wasn’t inviting Veronica along.

_Sounds good._

Toni Topaz slides into the desk next to his during homeroom the next morning. She’s not wearing her Serpent jacket today. Maybe she’d only worn it yesterday to prove some kind of point.

“Still alive, I see.” She turns sideways in her seat to face him, and begins to tap one leg of his desk with the toe of her boot, just firmly enough that he can feel it through his seat. It reminds him of JB, how she’d flick him on the back of his neck over and over again when she wanted to get on his nerves.

“Still alive,” he confirms.

“Have you given any more thought to what I said?”

He assumes she means the thinly-veiled threat to join-or-die – and the answer is yes, he had. It was practically all that he’d been _able_ to think about last night.

That, and what Betty would have to say about all of this.

Lying in bed, he’d almost called her, just so she could help him sort through his thoughts. As he’d learned over the course of the Blossom investigation, there was something about working things through with Betty that made his thinking calmer, clearer. She came at everything from an unexpected angle – unexpected to him, at least. It was one of the best things about her.

But something had held him back. He told himself it was just the fact that her last text – _goodnight!_ – had indicated that she was going to sleep.

“I have,” he tells Toni, fiddling with his pen. “Thank you for the offer, but I decline.”

Her kicks grow a little harder. “It wasn’t an offer, Jones.”

Jughead lifts his eyes to the ceiling. There’s a dark patch near the back corner of the room that looks like it’s about to start dripping onto the unsuspecting student seated below; he makes a mental note to check the ceiling tiles before choosing a seat from now on. “I know. I was being sarcastic.”

Toni doesn’t say anything, but when he looks at her, she’s staring right back with an expression he can’t read.

She shrugs. “Suit yourself.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

Within just a few days, Jughead learns which classes promise a kernel or two of actual knowledge, and which stairwells to avoid if he doesn’t want to walk around smelling like an ashtray.  He keeps his head down, makes it back in time for dinner with the Taylors every evening, and texts stupid memes back and forth with Archie at night before going to sleep, just like he did when they shared a room.

He thinks about texting Betty, too, but every possible conversation starter he comes up with feels forced and lame. In the past there had always been some built-in excuse to spend time with her: an article, a clue, a chem assignment he needed help with. Now that Jason Blossom’s murder has been solved – now that they no longer even attend the same school – what is there to say?

The lone bright spot in his week comes when he convinces his English teacher to green light the return of Southside’s now-defunct student newspaper, the Red and Black. All it takes is a link to the articles he’s still got up on the Blue and Gold’s website, and a promise that neither drugs nor gangs will be harbored in the glorified storage closet that he’s permitted to start using as an office.

He’s still trying to contain his smile when Toni stops him in the hallway outside, clearly having eavesdropped on the conversation. “You’re starting up the newspaper?” she demands.

Jughead raises an eyebrow. “Sounds like you already know the answer to that.”

“Phillips said no when I asked him the same exact thing back in September.” Toni crosses her arms over her chest. “What makes you so special?”

 _Probably the fact that I’m not in a gang?_ Toni is wearing her Serpents jacket again today, over a flannel shirt that’s tied in a knot just above her belly button.

On the other hand, it could have just as much to do with the fact that Jughead, demographically speaking, has a lot more in common with Mr. Phillips than Toni does. And if that’s the case, she has every right to be pissed off about it. “Do you want to help? I can’t do the whole thing by myself.”

“I’m not a writer.”

“You take photos.” Jughead gestures to the camera slung around her neck; she may not wear the jacket every day, but he’s never seen her without the camera. “Unless you just wear that as a fashion statement.”

Toni rolls her eyes. She seems to be considering it, though, her lips pursed as she looks somewhere past his shoulder.

“I’ll think about it.” Toni walks away before he can respond.

Working with her on the newspaper wouldn’t be the worst thing, he decides. As prickly as she is, Toni gets his sense of humor, and she’s one of the few people he’s encountered who shares his interest in gaining some semblance of an education during the seven hours they’re trapped within Southside’s cinder block walls.

Friday, though, is when everything goes to hell.

It begins after homeroom, when Jughead discovers that someone’s been tampering with his locker. The tampering itself is not a concern; with nothing to keep the rusty metal door locked, he knows that should he leave so much as a granola bar in there, it’ll vanish the moment he turns his head.

(Textbooks, on the other hand, are perfectly safe.)

No, what’s concerning is the message scratched into the chipped paint on the inside of the locker door, which he’s ninety-nine percent sure was not there yesterday afternoon: **_YOUR DEAD._**

Even that doesn’t freak him out too badly, at least not at first. The school is completely covered in graffiti, from the floors to the desks to the ceilings. Jughead tells himself it’s only natural that Southside’s budding graphic artists would eventually move on to the few remaining blank canvases available, and tries to put it out of his mind.

But a few hours later at lunchtime, as he’s reaching for his rubbery, lukewarm hamburger and daydreaming of Pop’s, a knife appears out of nowhere, jammed into the center of the bun – narrowly missing his hand.

Jughead falls still, hand hovering by his tray as his heart does its very best to beat its way through his chest.

The bench on which he’s seated creaks as another body adds its weight.

He can feel his would-be assailant’s breath hot against his ear as a voice says, “Hey, Jug Head. Did you get my note?”

Jughead swallows hard, biting back a retort. He’s no stranger to bullying. But Reggie Mantle never brought any sharp objects into the mix. Or poorly-spelled death threats.

“Yeah,” he says, fighting to keep his voice steady. “I got it.”

“Good.” The bench creaks again as the figure moves away, taking the knife with it. Jughead chances a glance to the side; as he’d suspected, it’s one of the Ghoulies, if the smudged eyeliner and fringed leather vest are any indication. “I’ll see you after school, Jug Head.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

Jughead concludes that he has three options: duck out early and race back to the Taylors’ house before the Ghoulie knows he’s gone; hide out in the Red and Black office until the Ghoulie gets bored and leaves; or proceed with his day as usual, and see what happens.

The first option assumes the Ghoulie actually cares about things like “attending class,” and isn’t lurking in wait on the front steps of the school even now. Unlikely.

The second assumes the Ghoulie has better things to do with his time than wait around an empty school just so he can torture Jughead Jones. Also unlikely.

The third assumes that the Ghoulie doesn’t _literally_ want to kill Jughead, despite his use of the word “dead” and a very sharp steak knife. It’s a risky consideration. Murder is still frowned upon in Riverdale, even south of the train tracks – but not to the degree that Jughead’s willing to stake his life on it.

Every time he catches a glimpse of a leather jacket or a snake tattoo in the hallway, he’s reminded there’s a fourth option. Toni’s words from earlier ring through his head.

_You may not be a Serpent now, but you will be, if you want to survive._

In the end, he selects door number two, and hides in the Red and Black. It might be the coward’s way out, but if the Ghoulie finds him there, at least he’ll die the way he’s always sort of wished he’d lived: surrounded by dusty old stacks of books and ancient typewriters.

Not even five minutes have passed before he regrets his decision. The door to the office swings open, and Jughead drops to the floor behind a row of broken chairs, the sound of his own pulse roaring in his ears.

“Jones?”

His heartbeat slows only slightly when he realizes it’s Toni. Jughead scrambles to his feet, one hand moving to the back of his head on instinct to make sure his beanie is still in place.

“Hey.” He realizes with a start that his hand is shaking, and shoves it into his pocket, hoping she didn’t notice. “If you’re here to talk about the paper, it’s not the greatest time.”

“That’s not why I’m here.” Toni shuts the door and crosses her arms over her chest, leveling him with a look that could rival even Cheryl Blossom’s iciest glare. “I saw what happened at lunch today.”

Jughead slumps, leaning against one of the sturdier-looking desks. “I’m not joining the Serpents, okay? The Serpents are the whole reason that guy wants to cut my pinky off, or whatever. I’ll deal with it myself.”

“You _can’t_ deal with it yourself. That’s the whole point.” Toni sighs. “Brad’s trying to make his bones with the Ghoulies by taking down the Serpent King’s son. He’s got the attention span of a fruit fly, so he’ll probably give up and go home ten minutes from now, but that just means it’s gonna be the next guy coming after you. And then the next guy, and the next guy, and the next guy after that.”

Jughead feels like his head is spinning. _Make his bones? The Serpent King?_

_That kid’s name is **Brad**?_

Toni’s eyes soften as she takes a step closer. “I know you didn’t ask for any of this. But ignoring it’s not going to make it go away.” She stops, her chest rising and falling in a deep breath. If he didn’t know any better, he’d think she was nervous. “Anyway…I think I might have a solution.”

Jughead very much doubts that, but it’s not like his own cup runneth over with brilliant ideas. “Okay, let’s hear it.”

Toni’s eyes narrow slightly. “First, let’s make it clear that I am _not_ interested in you. Romantically, sexually, whatever.”

Ego bruised a little, interest piqued a lot, he nods. “Sure. Same.”

“So don’t get all weird about what I’m about to say.”

He shrugs. “Nothing weird. Got it.”

“Good.” Toni clears her throat. “So...I think you should pretend to be my boyfriend.”

Jughead waits, expecting a punchline, or at least a “just kidding” and a literal punch on the arm...but Toni only stares back, waiting for his response.

He scratches the back of his neck. “Uh. What?”

“Pretend. To be. My boyfriend.” She says it slowly, enunciating each word, as though he’s stupid.

He’s pretty sure he’s not stupid. But he _might_ be hallucinating.

“Pretend to be your boyfriend,” he repeats.

Toni nods. “Yeah.”

Jughead feels heat creeping up his neck. He hadn’t been lying when he told Toni he had no romantic interest in her. But he’s not _blind_. She’s gorgeous, and appears to share Archie’s affinity for baring her torso to the elements as much as possible, a fact he’s become uncomfortably aware of ever since the word _boyfriend_ left her lips.

Toni sighs. “I told you not to get weird.”

“In my defense, that is a...a weird thing to say to someone.” Jughead swallows, crossing his arms over his chest. “I don’t understand.”

“If you’re dating a Serpent, you’re Serpent-adjacent. You’re afforded some level of protection.” Toni tests out one of the broken chairs with her foot before taking a seat. “It’s usually a thing for girlfriends. But since you refuse to man up and join as an _actual_ member –”

“Hey,” he begins to protest, but falls silent at Toni’s glare.

“– dating me means the Serpents will have your back.”

Jughead taps his fingers nervously on the desk. Based on the limited information he’s absorbed about gang life from his dad, that does make sense. That same protection had almost certainly been extended to his mother, who had never worn a jacket of her own, and to him and Jellybean as children too young to join up. But what he still doesn’t get is… “What’s in it for you?”

Toni frowns, suddenly very interested in her own fingernails. “I’ve been staying with my uncle, and he doesn’t like the people I’ve been seeing. He’s threatening to kick me out.”

Jughead finds this explanation suspect, at best. At no point in his life has _he_ ever been the parentally-preferred alternative to the guy someone was dating. “And he’d approve of me because…?”

“Because you have a dick,” Toni says flatly, shooting a pointed look at his crotch. Jughead fights the urge to cover it with his hands, despite the fact that he is, in fact, wearing pants. “Presumably.”

“Oh. So you’re...”

“I’m not closeted. Everyone knows I’m bi. My uncle’s just an asshole. But he’s the only asshole in my family with a spare bed right now.” Toni leans forward in her seat. “Look, this is a good deal for you. I don’t know why you wouldn’t go with it, unless you’ve got a girlfriend already.” At his silence, she raises an eyebrow. “Jones, if you’re hooking up with a northsider, it’s only a matter of time before she dumps your ass anyway.”

“She’s not my girlfriend,” he mumbles. Nor are they hooking up. Nor has Betty ever explicitly shown any interest in being anything more than his friend, and sometimes-investigation buddy.

_Still._

“Then she’s not worth getting your ass kicked by the Ghoulies.” Toni stands up and takes a few brisk steps towards him, holding out her hand. “Do we have a deal?”

 

 

 

 

 

 

They have a deal.

A deal that Jughead now deeply regrets, as Betty’s lovely mouth falls open in response to the words he’s just uttered out loud for the very first time:

_This is Toni, my girlfriend._

True to form, it only takes a few seconds for Betty’s innate Cooper politeness to kick in. “Hi, Toni,” she says, clasping her hands together in front of her chest. “It’s, um. It’s nice to meet you.”

“Same.”

Also true to form, Betty seems unfazed by Toni’s lack of enthusiasm. “Are you working on the newspaper, too?”

“Staff photographer.” Toni looks pointedly at the camera hanging over her chest, which happens to be extra-visible today, thanks to a garment Jughead can only describe as the top half of a corset.

There is a long, uncomfortable pause. When Toni says no more, Betty turns back to Jughead, gazing up at him. Her wide, green eyes are full of hurt.

He almost breaks right then and there.

Mouth dry, he licks his lips, forcing his eyes past Betty to the desk behind her. “Thank you for the coffee maker.”

Betty looks away and hugs her arms over her chest, as though she’s cold. “You’re welcome.”

For possibly the first time in his entire life, Jughead feels at a complete loss for words. He shifts on his feet, clears his throat, and wonders if there’s a hole somewhere nearby that he can curl up and die in. Surely this is some kind of hidden camera prank show, and not his actual life.

Toni is the one to finally cut through the silence. “So...we were just going to start planning out our first issue –”

Betty picks up instantly on the cue to leave. “Oh, of course. I need to head home anyway. Um, see you around, maybe, Jug.” She pauses in the doorway for only a moment to give them both a little wave. “Bye, Toni.”

The door closes behind Betty with a definitive click, but Jughead waits until she’s safely out of earshot before sinking into a chair, head in his hands. “Oh my god.”

“Is that the girl you’re obsessed with?” Jughead peeks through his fingers to see Toni examining Betty’s gift; apparently it’s a good one, because a moment later she drops the ancient coffee maker she’d brought herself right into the trash can. “She’s not what I expected.”

Jughead scowls, crossing his arms over his chest. _Obsessed_ isn’t the word _he’d_ use, but he suspects any debate over semantics with Toni is futile. “What’d you expect?”

“I don’t know...Emily the Strange?” Toni shrugs. “Winona Ryder in _Beetlejuice_? I guess she’s hot in that uptight school teacher kinda way.”

Irritation prickles across his skin. “You don’t know her.”

Toni ignores him, pulling a notebook out of her backpack and flipping it to a fresh page. “I heard we’re getting a new math teacher after Miss Simpkin’s meltdown last week. Thoughts on making it a feature?”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

\---

 

 

 

 

 

 

Betty Cooper has never been sucker punched before.

But she’s pretty sure this is exactly what it would feel like if she had.

She power walks all the way home from the south side, her gloved hands balled into fists, blinking back tears that she wishes she could blame on the wind. As she turns onto Elm Street, she hesitates, and then walks past her driveway and straight for the house next door.

Archie answers the door wearing nothing but a pair of Riverdale High track pants, his hair still damp from the shower. “Betty! What’s up?”

Four months ago, Betty would have swooned at the sight of him. Now she’s just annoyed by the double standard that Archie can walk around half-naked anytime he wants, while she gets scolded by her own mother if her skirt rucks up too far past her knees.

(It’s definitely the patriarchy that’s got her in a terrible mood. Definitely not anything having to do with Jughead or his new girlfriend, Toni.)

(What kind of name is _Toni_?)

( _Girlfriend?_ )

“Can you put on a shirt?” she snaps, brushing past him into the foyer. Vegas pads into the room, nuzzling at her fingers with his nose, and she pets him absently, trying to take comfort in his soft, warm fur.

“Sure.” Archie grabs a hoodie off of the hook by the door and shrugs it on, eyeing her with curiosity and more than a little trepidation. “Everything okay?”

“Yeah. Everything’s fine.” Betty crosses her arms, uncrosses them, and then crosses them again. “Did you know about Jughead’s new girlfriend?”

Archie squints, like he’s unsure whether she’s asking him a trick question. “Um...am I supposed to?” He cocks his head to the side. “Is it...you?”

Her face grows hot. “What? No.” Betty shakes her head. “It’s this girl Toni. At Southside.”

Archie shoves his hands in the pocket of his hoodie and shrugs. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. But it doesn’t sound like Jughead to have a secret girlfriend. Or, like...any girlfriend.”

It _doesn’t_ sound like Jughead. But she’d heard it with her own two ears, and seen Toni with her own two eyes. “I just met her. I walked all the way over to Southside to see him and he –” She stops, her throat suddenly tight, eyes burning.

Archie hesitates, then rests a gentle hand at her elbow. “I was just about to take Vegas for a walk. You wanna come?”

She knows he’s lying, but she nods anyway.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Archie asks Betty to hold the leash. At first she thinks it’s because he’s forgotten his gloves, and his hands are cold. But after a few blocks – tugging Vegas away from puddles, keeping an eye out for squirrels – she starts to feel better. The dog is a good distraction. (Maybe Archie knows her better than she gives him credit for.)

“So what happened?” he asks.

Betty breathes in deep through her nose, then out. “Jug told me this weekend that he was starting up the paper at Southside, so I wanted to surprise him. But when I got there he was acting _so_ weird. Like he didn’t even want me to be there. And then this girl walked into the room and he said she was his _girlfriend_.”

For a split second, she had thought it was just one of his tossed-off jokes. But Toni hadn’t so much as cracked a smile, and when Betty met Jughead’s clear blue eyes, the pained look on his face had told her everything she needed to know.

Archie looks just as mystified as she feels. “How’d they meet?”

“I don’t know. I didn’t hang around to get any details.” Betty lifts her gaze to meet Archie’s. “But Arch...she had a Serpent jacket on.”

He shakes his head slowly. “I’ve been texting with him all week, you’d think he would’ve said something. Or at lunch this weekend.”

Knowing that Jughead’s been texting Archie, but not her – it doesn’t quite rise to the level of a sucker punch, but it doesn’t feel good, either. Betty trains her eyes on the sidewalk, stepping around the occasional crack in the pavement out of habit. “Well, Jug’s always been private,” she mutters.

Before bed that night, Betty retrieves her journal from the pocket where she keeps it hidden beneath her mattress. She tucks herself under her fluffy floral comforter, surrounded by soft pillows and the well-worn teddy bear she’s had since kindergarten, and cracks it open to a fresh page.

 _Maybe he never showed any interest in girls at Riverdale High because the kind of girl he likes isn’t AT Riverdale High_ , she scribbles, trying to capture the words on paper before they’re out of her head. _Toni is cool and sarcastic and artsy. Maybe she’s exactly his type, and he just never knew it until now._

It’s almost impossible to wrap her head around the words she’s just written down. Jughead even having a “type” is something she’d never considered. And if she had, she wouldn’t have assumed it to be the precise polar opposite of her, Betty Cooper. But then again...

_I didn’t know he was my type until all of this craziness happened. But what does that even mean? Is he my “type”? Don’t I just like him?_

Jughead isn’t a type at all, she thinks, tapping the end of her pen against the page. There’s no one else like him. Not at Riverdale, anyway. She frowns, sinking deeper into the pillows at her back.

_I miss him._

_I really, really miss him._

When Betty reaches her locker on Friday morning, Veronica is already there waiting, a cup of coffee and a warm chocolate croissant in hand. “Archie told me,” she says before Betty can ask her what she’s doing.

Betty makes a face as she accepts the gifts. “I really wish he hadn’t,” she mumbles, taking a careful sip of the coffee.

“He didn’t tell me you were upset. I inferred that part myself.” Veronica leans against the locker beside Betty’s. “Are you okay?”

There is no point, she decides, in continuing to protest the idea that she’s crushing on Jughead. Veronica may be nosy to the point of invasiveness, but she’s also got a lot more experience at navigating this sort of thing. “I’m fine. I’m...confused.” Betty places a few of her textbooks inside her locker, then links her arm through Veronica’s as they make their way down the hall towards homeroom. “How do you go from zero interest in girls, ever, to dating one in a week and a half?”

“I wouldn’t say _zero_ interest. He’s been plenty moon-eyed over you.” At Betty’s look of disbelief, Veronica widens her eyes. “Oh, come on, B. You had to have seen it.”

“Why didn’t you say anything?”

“Because I didn’t think you were into him that way. _But_.” Veronica pulls her to a stop just outside the classroom door. “Now I stand corrected, and I am one hundred percent committed to helping my girl get her guy.”

Betty shakes her head so vigorously her ponytail nearly smacks Veronica in the face. “No. No crazy schemes. If…if he’s happy, I’m happy.”

(It’s not entirely true. But she _wants_ it to be.)

Veronica rolls her eyes. “Fine. No schemes, no hijinks, I promise. But I _have_ to meet this Toni. Until I’ve seen it with my own eyes I refuse to believe there are two of you in this world.”

“Two what?”

Veronica squeezes her arm with affection. “Girls that want to date Jughead Jones.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

Betty tries to forget about it for the rest of the day. It’s difficult, though, when so many things at school remind her of Jughead: his old locker, his empty seat at their lunch table, the entire office of the Blue and Gold.

That’s where Veronica finds her at the end of the school day, typing away at an article about the water polo team’s recent victory at regionals. Veronica hops up onto the desk beside Betty’s computer, crossing her ankles as she swings her feet back and forth.

“You didn’t have any plans tomorrow night, right?”

Betty’s fingers pause over the keyboard. “No...why?”

Veronica claps her hands together in glee. “Perfect. You do now, so pencil it into your day planner.”

Leaning back in her seat, Betty folds her arms over her chest. “Veronica, what did you do?”

“I did what any good friend would do in this situation, B,” Veronica says earnestly. She clasps her hands in her lap and gives Betty her best, brightest smile. “I planned us a triple date with Jughead and Toni.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to everyone who left kudos and/or comments! You are lovely and wonderful and I'd love to know what you think of this second chapter. 
> 
> Yes, I named Jughead's foster family after the incomparable Taylors of Friday Night Lights. These two aren't quite as awesome, but they're not half bad.

**Author's Note:**

> In an effort to head off a wave of crazed anons from my inbox, I'll spoil some things for you now:
> 
> Are Jughead and Toni going to date? Yes, fakely.
> 
> Are Jughead and Toni going to kiss? Yes.
> 
> Are they going to enjoy it? No. Not at all.
> 
> So, I hope you'll join me for this silly little ride I came up with in the shower the other day. All motives will be revealed (to you, the reader) in the next chapter. At this point I've written 30+ (!) Bughead fics (jesus christ) so you can rest assured this is going to end the way you want it to (unless you're a secret Jug/Toni shipper, then you may want to look elsewhere) (but no Toni hate! she's going to be fun in this).
> 
> I reeeeeally hope you'll let me know what you think -- comments are love, comments are life. And please feel free to come say hi on tumblr, I'm at imreallyloveleee! 
> 
> Love you all!


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